


a long way from the playground

by merlypops



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Normal Life, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asthma, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Childhood Friends, Declarations Of Love, Depression, Developing Relationship, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Growing Up, Kissing, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Mild Smut, New York, Period-Typical Homophobia, Stucky - Freeform, Teenagers, World War II, no serum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-05-13 01:05:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14739191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merlypops/pseuds/merlypops
Summary: “You’re so beautiful, Stevie,” Bucky murmurs, his heart melting at his boyfriend’s gentle eyes; the little smear of strawberry sauce on the corner of his mouth; the faint stain of red paint that Steve hasn’t quite managed to clean away.“Think you must be talking about yourself, Buck,” Steve counters but his eyes are glittering with promise now and neither of them care about finishing their sundae. The only thing Bucky gives a damn about is Steve.Steve and Bucky's life together in a world without serum.Based on "18" by One Direction.





	1. Autumn, 1927

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you'll all enjoy this. ❤
> 
> Edit: I know this has been discontinued since last year but I miss it and I'm totally gonna write it again soon! These boys deserve their happy ending.

There’s a new boy sitting out on the playground.

His back is pressed to the oak tree that grows on their school field and his tongue pokes out of his mouth in concentration as he fiddles with a yo-yo in his lap.

Steve is drawing him, kind of. Just his outline; the way his hair flops down over his forehead and the concentration colouring his face. He can see the gentle rise and fall of the boy’s breaths as a cool breeze stirs the long grass around him. Steve can see the boy’s smiling mouth.

The smile fades when a bunch of the bigger kids strut over towards him. They’re led by Frank Grim who well and truly lives up to his name. He’s the boy who’s tried to flush Steve’s head down the lavatory more times than he’d care to count. Steve _hates_ him, just like he hates every other bully who seems to thrive at his elementary school.

It’s like a feeding ground for horrible people praying on the quiet ones or the sweet ones…. the ones too sick or too weak to stand up for themselves.

Steve saw the new boy being led into his classroom this morning but he hadn’t heard his name. He’d shot him a hesitant smile though; had raised his hand in awkward welcome until a ball of paper had smacked into the back of his head. He feels worry and bitterness welling up on his tongue.

It’s the new boy’s first day so there’s no way he can know for sure that Frank is bad news. He seems to get it though; pushes himself fluidly to his feet and bristles as his sky blue eyes flicker around warily at the bullies.

He watches them with something like resignation when the first kid deliberately jostles him, sharp elbow sinking into soft stomach. The new boy stands his ground and heaves a sigh, like he’s been expecting this. Like being bullied is something he’s _used_ to.

Steve scrambles to his feet clumsily, shoving the ever-present snub of pencil and his drawing of the boy – _his hair, his scruffy uniform, the hollow of his cheeks_ – into the pocket of his patched trousers. They slide in beside his asthma inhaler and Steve almost trips as his peeling second-hand shoes catch on the cracked tarmac beneath his feet.

Frank has already delivered a series of rough shoves to the new boy when Steve finally comes to a wheezing stop nearby. There is a stitch burning fever-bright across his ribs and a righteous anger swirling inside him like a snow globe.

The bullies are laughing at the new boy’s hair. It is long and soft, the colour of chocolate and hazelnuts. Steve wants to run his fingers through it.

One of the bigger kids grabs a handful and _rips_.

The new boy’s yo-yo tumbles onto the floor as he raises his shaking fists.

“Hey!” Steve shouts when Frank starts to mimic the new boy’s Romanian accent. “Hey, you leave him alone!”

Steve flies at Frank with all the force of a falling leaf, tiny fists battering across the older boy’s back in the moments before he turns to face his adversary. A terrible sneer spreads treacle-slow across the bully’s face when he sees who has come to the new boy’s defence.

“It’s pipsqueak!” Frank declares delightedly, piggy eyes sparkling in the dull grey light of another overcast New York day. He shoves Steve hard enough that the younger boy staggers back a few steps, wide eyes flickering between Frank and the new boy’s worried face. His chocolate-brown hair is messy now, no longer glossy but unkempt. His cheeks are flushed with blood.

Steve stares at him until another punch from Frank claws his attention back.

“Hey, pipsqueak,” Frank spits in a darker voice. “When will you ever learn to keep your beaky nose out of other people’s business?”

The bullies are circling him now and Steve knows he should be scared but the new boy is safe. That’s all that matters.

Despite his conviction, uncertainty still flutters inside him like butterflies, filling his ribcage and making him want to… _what_? Cry? Scream?

Steve swallows the feelings down as he looks up at them. They are taller than him – _way_ taller… tall enough to block out the light. Steve squares his jaw and balances on the balls of his feet, fists rising defensively just like his mom taught him because his dad wasn’t there to do it.

He remembers the words for a moment; remembers his mom’s warm hand on his shoulder as she walks Steve home from school with a split lip and helpless anger burning in his aching chest. Steve remembers Frank’s fist bursting his bottom lip as he pins him against the radiator in the boy’s lavatories. He remembers the downcast expression on his mom’s face when he told her what happened.

“ _You’re small, Stevie. You_ know _you’re small but that doesn’t mean you can’t fight. You gotta tell them to back off first and then shove them away if they try to touch you… but if you_ have _to hit them properly, kid, then aim for the eyes, nose, ears, neck, groin, knee, and legs. Any of those you can manage but don't step any closer than you have to. Remember the different hand movements we talked about? You gotta remember when to use your knife hand position and when a knuckle blow or a palm strike is enough. If you need to poke their eyes, you poke their eyes, kid. You gotta use your elbows, knees, and head - those are your bony built-in weapons, okay? Hey, don’t look so worried, Stevie. I know you don’t wanna hit people but sometimes it’s hurt or be hurt. Just look at what happened to your daddy, right? Violence is a fact of life.”_

Steve is jarred back to the present by someone kicking him in the back of the legs. He crumples to his knees and glares up at the bullies with a cold anger he didn’t know he possessed.

“You leave him alone,” Steve repeats harshly, catching the new boy’s gaze as he hovers worriedly behind Frank and his goons. The boy is staring at Steve with worry etched plain on his face; a bruise is already blooming on his cheek and Steve sees red as he punches Frank in the stomach as hard as he can. The bigger boy doesn’t even wince.

“Looks like it isn’t _just_ pipsqueak’s body that’s stunted,” Frank taunts with a nasty smile on his face. “Turns out it’s his _brain_ too.” The bullies laugh and Steve feels the first fluttering of anxiety tightening like barbed wire around his ribs. “Boys, what do you say we teach pipsqueak a lesson about picking on people his own size?”

They close in around him and for a while Steve’s awareness is limited only to their grunts, the ache of their punches and kicks, and stolen glimpses of the grey sky stretching vastly overhead. Someone’s knuckles pummel mercilessly into his stomach and Steve folds like paper, tumbling down onto the playground with a wheezy sob that makes the bullies circling him laugh.

The new boy rises like a ghost behind them, tall for ten years old and a _lot_ bigger than he’d looked sitting hunched on the ground before. His long dark hair frames his furious face and Steve catches his breath with something that is almost awe when the boy barrels into the bullies, sending them scattering like dried leaves as their terror lends them wings.

Steve lies there just breathing for a while. After a moment – once he is sure the bullies have fled back into the school – the new boy lies down beside him, close enough that their elbows brush when he shifts to get comfortable on the tarmac.

Steve glances to the side and sees the boy watching him, his warm blue eyes crinkling as he smiles with a sluggishly-bleeding split lip. He reaches out awkwardly and Steve gives a nervous giggle as he shakes the boy’s hand, clinging to it for a moment as his dizziness fades and his nose drips blood down the grass-stained collar of his shirt.

“Nice to meet you,” the boy says with his pleasant accent.

“Nice to meet you too,” Steve says, smiling and smearing the blood across his face when he tries to wipe his nose clean. He pushes himself upright stiffly, wincing a little, but his broad smile only widens when the boy hops to his feet and extends a hand to help him up. Steve accepts it and the world seems to slow for a moment, until all he can focus on is the taller boy’s warmth and the mischievous smile lighting up his bloodied face.

“There’s a leaf in your hair,” Steve says when their fingers finally slip apart. He picks it out shyly, cheeks flushing rosy pink when the taller boy bows his head solemnly – _trustingly_ – so that Steve can reach without going on tiptoes. He smiles and wheezes a little because of his asthma, cheeks heating when their eyes meet, the space between them crackling with new beginnings.

“You okay, pal?” the taller boy asks and Steve nods, shuffling his feet bashfully on the cracked ground.

“I’m Steve,” he says impulsively. “Steven Grant Rogers.” He smiles encouragingly as he says it, hoping the new boy will realise just how badly Steve wants to be _friends_. “What’s your name?”

The boy shuffles his feet too, kicking at the floor with a grimace twisting his face.

“James,” he says, sticking out his hand again even though they’ve already shaken. Steve beams, wrapping their fingers together for too-brief a moment although his smile falters when the boy continues hesitantly. “James Buchanan Barnes.” The boy – _James_ – has flushed red too. His mouth twists into something self-deprecating and Steve doesn’t like it at all.

“That’s a good name,” he tries but James just shakes his head.

“No, it isn’t. I don’t like it.”

Steve watches him sympathetically.

Grey clouds still blanket the sky overhead but a chink of sunlight breaks through anyway. It falls around them, bathing them in buttery light, and the flecks of green in Steve’s eyes sparkle. He smiles and James smiles back despite himself, dark hair tousled, chin jutting strong and proud.

Steve realises their fingers are still tangled together.

“Well, we better give you a nickname then,” he says and the boy squeezes his hand tighter. Steve thinks of James’ full name and his smile, and the comforting feeling he gets when his mom calls him _Stevie_. He comes to a decision.

“I’m gonna call you Bucky,” Steve says and the sun burns through the clouds overhead, and everything shines like gold.

Bucky smiles.


	2. Spring, 1929

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I'm really sorry this was discontinued for so long but it's been bugging me for ages that it wasn't finished and I still adore Stucky a ridiculous amount so I've decided to focus on this story before I finish anything else!  
> I really, really hope you'll enjoy this <3

It’s Bucky’s twelfth birthday. He’s had a growth spurt and he’s almost a whole head taller than Steve now. His dark hair is long enough to plait – Steve knows this from experience – and Bucky’s accent has taken on a Brooklyn twinge that makes Steve sentimental for the way it had sounded back when they first met.

Bucky’s birthday party has just finished. Every family member who travelled over from Romania with him is still crammed into his tiny sitting room, sharing stories and laughter as the birthday boy sneaks away into his bedroom with stolen cake, his fingers entwined with Steve’s.

They settle down together on the patchwork rug Mrs Barnes made, knees brushing where they’re sitting cross-legged, dimples creasing their flushed cheeks. Bucky’s smile is contagious; has been ever since his family shouted: “Surprise!” and Steve beamed at him from behind Mr Barnes’ legs.

Bucky’s face is shining with joy and Steve basks in the glow of him.

There are cake crumbs clinging to the corner of Bucky’s mouth and Steve thinks about brushing them away for a moment before he blushes, focusing on the icing he’s been nibbling at because he’s allergic to a lot of the ingredients in Victoria sponge.

Bucky’s room is comfortingly familiar around them, dull brown curtains cancelled out by the brightly-coloured pictures Steve has drawn for him that plaster the walls. The drawings are of everything under the sun: superheroes and spaceships; flying cars and monsters. Steve has drawn them too, kicking a football on the green or simply walking together, side by side just like always.

“Your asthma bad today, Stevie?” Bucky asks, perceptive as usual. Steve smiles, chest tight and heart swelling with fondness. Bucky is already reaching towards the pocket where Steve keeps his inhaler and the smaller boy grins, batting his hands away gently.

“I managed to catch _another_ cold,” Steve says honestly. “It’s almost summer and I’m the only one in our whole class who’s still sick.”

“You need chicken soup,” Bucky says knowledgeably as he takes another bite of cake, buttercream smearing across his lips. “That’s what mama always does when I don’t feel good. Can’t yours make you soup too?”

“She’s too busy working now that dad’s not here,” Steve says and he doesn’t realise his bottom lip is wobbling until Bucky draws him into a hug, cake long forgotten.

Bucky gives very good hugs. Steve has learnt this over the last two years of their friendship.

Bucky always wraps his arms warm around Steve’s waist, holding him safe against his chest before he cards a hand through Steve’s hair, playfully tousling and petting in equal amounts. Bucky is so warm that it’s like being wrapped in a quilt and Steve tightens his grip on the back of the older boy’s sweater, stubbornly refusing to release him until Bucky huffs out a laugh and licks Steve’s nose in retaliation.

Steve jerks away, wiping his face and snickering in disgust, and Bucky grins, clearly proud of himself for cheering his best friend up.

“It’ll be okay, Stevie,” Bucky says and Steve softens, smiling gentler now. His hands fall into his lap and his fingers tangle with anxiety. Bucky’s hand settles over his, warm and safe. _Secure_. That’s how Bucky makes him feel.

“You’ve got icing on your face,” Steve says, breathless because of the butterflies beating a cacophony in his chest.

Bucky smears it on his fingers, considering it for a moment before he leans forward to daub some across Steve’s still-damp nose. Steve wrinkles it in distaste but his lips quirk into a crooked smile anyway and Bucky smirks.

“So do you,” he says innocently. Steve rolls his eyes.

“Just because it’s your birthday doesn’t mean you get to be a punk like this,” he points out. “It’s not cute, Bucky.”

“Nope,” Bucky agrees airily, the mischief on his icing-covered face painfully evident. “It’s _adorable_.”

Steve huffs out an unwilling laugh; feels the butterflies beating faster and tries to convince himself that he’s not about to go into cardiac arrest because his best friend grinned at him. He feels better now though and he’s not sure why it still surprises him. Being in Bucky’s presence is always like this.

Steve grows distracted when the bedroom door crashes open and Bucky’s young cousins hurtle in, clambering over the furniture and shovelling cake into their hungry mouths as they giggle. They’re cute so Steve can’t be too annoyed about it, especially when he sees the fondness on Bucky’s face as he watches them play.

Steve blushes when the older boy slings his arm around his shoulders, holding him close as the heat of his body soaks into Steve’s side, warming him from the inside out.

Their close proximity is nothing new. They’ve always been like this, ever since that day where they lay together on the playground, side by side beneath the empty sky. Although Steve will never admit it to anyone, he prays that they stay side by side always.

Bucky’s hand tightens on his shoulder - almost like he can tell what the younger boy is thinking - and Steve hums with satisfaction as he settles back into his best friend’s side, giggling at a joke one of Bucky’s cousins cracks as the birthday boy beams beside him.

Bucky is always touching Steve like this now, casual as anything. Steve isn’t sure he’ll ever get used to it because he’s never had a best friend like this before; someone who’s always hugging and tickling him; always fixing his hair or his shirt collar after they’ve wrestled together in the grass.

Normally people don’t want to touch him if they can help it. He looks so sickly and weak; they’re probably scared they’ll break him… that he’ll snap like a twig if they lay a hand on him. Bucky isn’t like that at all. He makes Steve feel special, sort of. Like he’s _normal_ almost.

Sometimes, when the weather is cold and Steve hasn’t worn enough layers, Bucky puts his arm around his best friend without even mentioning it, just lending his body heat like it’s nothing. If Steve gets upset, Bucky is there with a comforting squeeze on the shoulder, and if Steve acts flippant, he receives a reprimanding poke on the nose.

Bucky passes him his inhaler wordlessly whenever the reedy whine of his aching lungs makes itself known. Bucky even looks after his best friend when Steve gets himself into fights. He helps the younger boy clean up afterwards and, sometimes when they’re limping back home, his hand strays down to one of Steve’s hip bones but Bucky never mentions it and Steve wonders why he likes the warmth of it so much… wonders why it makes his breath quicken in a different way.

Bucky isn’t laughing at his cousins now but he still looks fond, his sky blue eyes glitter-soft as they flicker down to the boy tucked under his arm, all sandy hair and timid smiles. Steve doesn’t always know what Bucky is thinking when he looks at him like that but he knows all the important stuff; knows that Bucky is scared of the dark and that he kissed Margaret Thompson behind the school and didn’t like it.

Steve admires Bucky so much.

He thinks about how lucky he is to have a best friend like that the whole walk home, even though he’s still shivering with his cold. His mouth tastes like icing and laughter, and his heart feels full in his chest.

He’s still thinking about Bucky when he lets himself into the house, tucking the key on its string back down his shirt as he scurries up to his room. His mom is out and he doesn’t like being alone, and he shuts his bedroom door hard behind him when he gets upstairs. He wants to be with other people - especially after the loud, lively, friendly atmosphere of Bucky’s party - but there’s no one around so he does the next best thing.

The sketchbook Bucky got him for his last birthday is full of drawings of people and Steve strokes the pads of his fingers gently over them as he turns the pages. He’s drawn his mom, his dad, his neighbours, his teachers, some of the kids at school, and even Mrs Kowalski from the delicatessen two streets over, but most of the drawings are of Bucky.

He’s drawn Bucky’s eyes and his hands; the dimples that crease his soft cheeks when he grins; the way the wind tousles his long hair; the way he looks when they play catch or tag out on the green, all long limbs and athletic stretches.

Steve wonders why he can’t stop drinking Bucky in wherever they go.

Maybe it’s because he wishes _he_ looked more like that… or maybe not.

Maybe it’s something else instead.

Steve supposes only time will tell but he’s not too worried.

If it was something bad, why would it make him feel so happy inside?

Bucky _always_ makes him happy.

Steve never wants to be without him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to anyone who is still reading!  
> I'd love to hear what you thought <3


	3. Summer, 1931

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates for this story in one night... I haven't been this motivated to write in a long time and it's weirdly lovely. I'm so glad I went back to this fic.  
> Fingers crossed you'll enjoy it!  
> (This chapter is a little bit angstier though so just a heads up.)

It’s Steve’s fourteenth birthday and his life is falling apart.

Or… well, it _feels_ like it is anyway.

He’s ill and cold today, even though the sun is shining overhead. He has to leave lessons early to cry in the bathroom and, when Bucky follows him, it only makes it worse. That’s never happened before. Usually, his best friend’s presence calms him but… but that isn’t possible when Bucky’s the cause of his sadness.

Steve wishes he didn’t feel that way because he knows it’s not fair on his best friend.

It’s not _Bucky’s_ fault that his dad is still alive. He can’t help it that Steve saw them walking together the other evening; can’t help it that being drawn into a hug by his dad before they tossed a ball to each other across the green made Steve feel like he’d been kicked in the chest.

The chipped porcelain of the sink is cold under Steve’s shaking hands when he hunches over it, hating the boiling tears fighting their way out from beneath his closed lids. His chest is growing tight, his breath whistling out of him as he coughs uselessly, trying to fight his way past the breathlessness.

Bucky reaches into Steve’s pocket silently, easing out the inhaler and trying to hand it to the younger boy. Steve is shaking too badly to take it, his head spinning at how little oxygen he’s able to drag in. He’s more frightened than sad now and he looks at Bucky’s reflection helplessly in the cracked mirror; feels his heart racing frantically in the moments before Bucky holds the inhaler to his lips, his expression gentle as he helps his best friend take a puff.

Bucky presses a chaste kiss to Steve’s sandy blond hair the way his mom does when he’s crying. His concerned blue eyes are soft as he counts down the seconds before he gives Steve another puff and he relaxes visibly when the younger boy finally draws in a deep breath.

“Stevie?” Bucky asks quietly, his mouth tight like he’s trying to hide how worried he is. “Why were you crying?”

“Wasn’t crying,” Steve says weakly, even though the lie is obvious. He doesn’t want to tell Bucky that he’s jealous of Mr Barnes… doesn’t want to tell him that he misses his dead father like a limb.

“Buck,” Steve says softly, faintly. He reaches out with a trembling hand and Bucky draws him into a gentle hug, pressing another of those friendly kisses to his best friend’s hair.

“Need me to walk you home, Stevie?” Bucky asks gently, straightening the younger boy’s collar for him where it’s got crumpled. “You shouldn’t stay here after an asthma attack. You need rest.”

“Can’t go back home, Buck,” Steve murmurs, his teary eyes dropping to the tiles beneath their feet. “Mom is… mom is ill. Says it’s probably nothing but… she doesn’t want me there just in case I get sick...” His voice trails away, the lump in his throat choking when he thinks about his poor mom, working late shifts at the hospital before she got too sick to go in the day before. He knows she’s secretly afraid it’s tuberculosis because she’s _definitely_ been exposed to it on the ward at work. It makes Steve want to cry but it also makes him want to hold her hand and it aches that he can’t do either.

“Why didn’t you ask me for help?” Bucky murmurs, his fingertips brushing Steve’s jaw for a moment before a blush heats both of their cheeks. His hand slips away as fast as anything. “Come and stay at mine, Stevie,” he says firmly, his blue eyes serious. “My folks won’t mind. You know you’re always welcome at ours.”

Steve takes his hand and gives it a comforting squeeze, his eyelashes spiky with tears and his jaw squared with trying to hold his emotions in. He gives his best friend a watery smile, hitching his satchel up higher on one bony shoulder as he takes another calming breath.

“Thank you, Buck,” he says softly, more grateful than he can say. Bucky just shrugs, his long hair tucked behind one ear as his lips quirk up into a warm smile.

“Anything for you, Stevie,” he says sincerely and, fortunately for Steve, his parents agree.

They drag the couch cushions onto the floor in Bucky’s bedroom, refusing to let Steve help after his asthma attack. Mrs Barnes carries in an armful of blankets and cushions - familiar now after all the times Steve has stayed over - and Bucky’s eyes twinkle with mischief when his mom is gone, his lips curving into a tiny smirk.

“You’ll have to pay your way if you want to stay in _my_ room,” he says teasingly, pretending to study his fingernails as Steve scowls at him weakly from his makeshift bed. “Don’t say you don’t have any money,” the older boy adds, his eyes glittering. “You’ll have to _work_ , Stevie. Shoe shining, taking out the trash, maybe a back rub.”

He lets out a bark of laughter when Steve throws one of the cushions at him but he returns to his best friend’s side quickly, as lollopy as a puppy as he wrestles Steve down onto the blankets. Bucky is still snickering, clearly proud of himself for his silly joke, but his eyes are softer now and he keeps one arm wrapped around the younger boy’s shoulders when they tangle their legs together in the quiet of his bedroom.

“I was sad earlier because… I’m jealous of you.” Steve’s words leave him before he can over-think them but Bucky doesn’t pull away. He just watches his best friend with concern, his eyelashes so thick and dark from this close up. Steve thinks he could count every single one if he leant just a little bit closer.

“What are you jealous of?” Bucky asks softly. There are flecks of grey in his eyes that Steve has never noticed before. There’s a tiny, _tiny_ scar across the bridge of his nose, like he fell over when he was little maybe. “Because whatever it is, you can have it. I never want you to be sad, Stevie. We’re best friends.”

“You can’t give me your dad, Buck,” Steve points out but his eyes are undeniably fond. Bucky isn’t fazed.

“We can share papa,” he says instantly, shrugging one shoulder like it isn’t a big deal. “He already treats you like his second son, Stevie. He wouldn’t mind.”

Steve rests his head gratefully in the curve of Bucky’s shoulder. The older boy’s skin is warm and soft, smelling comfortingly of soap and something subtler… something that’s entirely Bucky. Steve wants to bottle it so he can breathe it in even when they’re not together because nothing else smells so much like home.

“My dad died in the war, Buck,” Steve says quietly, the words strange in his mouth. They’ve never talked about Steve’s father before and he can see the curiosity burning in his best friend’s kind eyes. Mostly though, Bucky just looks touched that Steve is trusting him with this. “He was in the one hundred and seventh infantry. He was really brave too; that’s what mom always says.”

Steve wishes he could be as brave as his father.

Maybe then Frank Grim would leave him and Bucky alone.

Maybe then Steve would finally be able to win a fight without Bucky coming to rescue him.

“He died because of mustard gas,” Steve says when he realises his words had faded to nothing. “I don’t really remember him much, even though I look at mom’s pictures a lot. Sometimes I _pretend_ I remember him to make her happy but… but I don’t.”

“Stevie -”

“I really hate myself for that,” Steve whispers, closing his eyes. “What kind of person forgets their own dad? He died fighting for this country, Buck, and I can’t even remember his voice.”

“You were only tiny, Stevie,” Bucky tries, his voice soft with worry and fondness.

“I’m tiny now,” Steve jokes wearily and they both laugh for a moment before a tear rolls down Steve’s cheek.

“I’m worried my mom is going to die, Buck,” he chokes out suddenly, burying his head in his hands. “When I was little, she taught me everything she could because my dad wasn’t around to do it.” He swallows past the lump in his throat, the tears in his eyes boiling over.

“I don’t want her to be a nurse anymore, Buck,” he whispers. “Too many people are sick with TB now. I’m scared she’ll catch it too.” He shudders, his bottom lip wobbling at the sadness reflected back at him on his best friend’s face. “Every time she leaves for work, I’m afraid she won’t come back home again.”

The sob escapes Steve without his permission, low and ragged, but crying in front of Bucky without trying to hide it doesn’t feel scary the way he imagined it would. It just feels sort of safe instead, like crying into your pillow at night-time while everyone else is asleep, tucked up in your cosy bed while the rains pours outside.

When Bucky pulls him into a gentle hug, Steve feels comfortable in a way he never has before.

“You’re not on your own,” Bucky promises. “It’s all gonna be alright. You’ve got _me_ , Stevie.” He takes a deep breath, shivers faintly as he cuddles the younger boy tighter. “You’ve got me,” he repeats.

Bucky kisses his hair and Steve tries to ignore the way his heart wants to beat right out of his chest.

He doesn’t do a very good job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!  
> The comments I've been lucky enough to receive so far mean the world and I'd love to hear what you thought of this chapter <3  
> Until next time...  
> (Not tonight though, sorry. Two in one day is enough haha.)


	4. Winter, 1934

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back already and this one gave me a lot of feels so hopefully you guys will enjoy it :)  
> We're already halfway through and I can't believe it!

Steve’s never felt like this before.

It’s like there are Independence Day fireworks going off inside him whenever he looks at Bucky. It takes his breath away sometimes; makes his chest tight and his head spin with something that definitely isn’t asthma. It makes the butterflies in Steve’s stomach go wild.

They’re seventeen now and the difference between them is almost embarrassing.

Steve is still small and scrawny, and Bucky is _not_.

He’s tall for seventeen; broad-shouldered and muscular. He has _really_ defined abs from working out at Goldie's Boxing Gym and Steve draws them sometimes in his sketchbook, the snub of pencil flying across the page as he outlines his best friend’s bare torso: Bucky’s toned stomach muscles, the sharp line of his hipbones, the trail of fine dark hair creeping down out of sight that makes Steve's mouth go dry.

Steve knows he’s falling for Bucky and he hates himself for it.

His dad never liked ‘queers’ – his mom has mentioned that enough times – and it’s kind of devastating for Steve to realise that this is just one more reason that his dad would never have been proud of him. It’s bad enough that he’s so sick all the time; that he’s too weak to win a fight; that he gets shoved around by Frank Grim and called ‘pipsqueak’ in front of everyone at school… but now he’s gone and fallen in love with another boy too.

Now he wants to know what Bucky’s mouth tastes like and how his long hair would feel tangled between Steve’s fingers. He wants to trace the shape of those stomach muscles with his _tongue_ and, when that realisation hits Steve like a sledgehammer, he isn’t sure what to make of it.

Fortunately – or _unfortunately_ , depending on how he looks at it – Steve is distracted from his growing infatuation by his fears for his mom. Tuberculosis is sweeping across the country like a deadly tidal wave and Steve is certain she’s going to catch it. The death toll rises every single day and, no matter how often she eludes the terrible illness, he is sure she will succumb soon. He wishes she would leave her job on the TB ward. He wishes he could shake her so that she would finally see sense.

He’s already lost his dad. He can’t lose her too. He _can’t_.

Everything inside Steve is torment and lightning and pain – except his love for Bucky.

It doesn’t matter how deeply he buries it. It’s still stubbornly lingering, refusing to fade no matter how much the hard little lump of self-hatred chokes him. It feels wrong to want to touch Bucky the way he does; to want to kiss him and hold him, and never let him go.

Steve thinks about Bucky kissing Margaret Thompson sometimes and the way his best friend didn’t like it. Secretly, Steve wonders if Bucky would prefer to kiss _him_ instead… and then he hates himself even more for imagining that his best friend shared his frightening, confusing feelings.

Bucky shouldn’t have to feel like this. He deserves to be _happy_.

Bucky doesn’t _look_ happy though. He’s watching Steve with big sad eyes now, all pretty and soft-looking in his too-big sweater. It’s storming outside and the damp of the pounding rain is making Steve’s asthma bad. His chest is tight with anxiety too but his sadness melts away when Bucky reaches for him, folding him up tight in his arms to stop Steve from pacing.

The lightning crackles across the sky and Steve flinches, tucking his face away into the familiar comfort of Bucky’s chest as the older boy draws him down onto his mattress. Steve has always hated storms and Bucky knows this, murmuring soft reassurances under his breath as he presses his lips gently to the younger boy’s hair. A broken little sob escapes Steve without his permission when the love in his chest ignites and his tears are painful as they soak into his best friend’s neck.

It feels like second nature for Bucky to gently tilt the younger boy’s chin up and kiss him, right there on his unmade bed on a gloomy Brooklyn afternoon as the rain pours down in sheets. Bucky’s fingers are soft in his hair, his cheeks warm beneath Steve’s trembling hands as the thunder rumbles overhead.

Steve doesn’t mind a bit.

Bucky’s kissing is a wonderful distraction and it’s not like Steve has to venture outside again today. He can’t go home when his mum might get him sick and the couch cushions are already in place on Bucky’s bedroom floor. Absently, Steve wonders if they’ll need them… and then he wonders what this means… whether this is just some sort of experiment to Bucky.

Steve doesn’t want to be like Margaret Thompson.

He wants Bucky to _want_ him.

When Steve draws back with wide eyes and kiss-swollen lips – and his fingers still tangled possessively in Bucky’s soft, _soft_ hair – he thinks he sees the want reflected back at him in Bucky’s eyes.

They start giggling then, soft and breathless, like they’re just little kids again, and they’re still laughing when they slip into the silent sitting room later that evening, the house empty around them as they steal sips of Mr Barnes’ whiskey.

Steve has never been drunk before but it feels kind of pleasant, like everything is softer around the edges. Bucky’s soft cheeks are flushed with alcohol, his sky blue eyes sparkling as he scoops the younger boy up easily against his broad chest. Steve lets out a breathless laugh, his narrow arms wrapping securely around Bucky’s shoulders as the older boy carries him back to his bedroom. Bucky stumbles into the doorframe when they get there and it makes them both laugh so hard they can barely catch their breath as they flop down onto Bucky’s bed.

They smile at each other for a moment, eyes glitter-soft in the darkness until, suddenly, they’re kissing.

The door is shut behind them and the curtains block out the darkening sky, and their movements are clumsy as Steve reaches to cradle the older boy’s face. It strikes Steve suddenly that he can’t remember the last time he wanted to go home but the thought is lost quickly in the haze of whiskey and Bucky’s full lips on his.

Steve straddles Bucky’s lap, pushing him down onto the mattress as he slips his tongue into his mouth. It makes Bucky hum, his lips curving into a smile unconsciously as his hips rise to meet Steve’s.

“Not as straight-laced as you like to pretend, Stevie,” Bucky mutters, earning a soft bite to his lip in retaliation. Steve’s eyes have gone soft as he gazes down at his best friend, looking very much like he has the whole universe spread out beneath him. The affection in his face must be shining too brightly to ignore because Bucky blushes when he stretches up to kiss Steve, his hands cradling the younger boy’s face as though he’s something precious… like he’s made of _glass_ almost.

Steve kisses him harder, his mouth meeting Bucky’s with something faintly desperate, like Bucky is his oxygen and the cold air around them is drowning him.

His hands are shaking when he unbuttons the older boy’s shirt and the kisses he presses to Bucky’s throat are slower now, his lips a hot drag as they slide south, lower and lower as Bucky gasps beneath him, writhing.

Steve knows he’ll draw sketches of this moment for the rest of his life; knows he’ll never forget it as long as he lives.

“You’re a work of art, Buck,” he breathes, almost too quiet to hear… and the thing is, Bucky almost believes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!  
> I'd love to hear what you thought <3


	5. Autumn, 1939

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! (Yes, I'm back already.)  
> I literally can't stop writing this fic and I'm having the best time with it so I really hope you'll enjoy this.  
> It gets angstier from this point on but hopefully that's okay...

Bucky doesn’t want to see the headlines screaming at him from the newspaper stand nearby but he can’t seem to stop looking. His gaze keeps wandering back like he’s staring at a horrible car crash and the metaphor feels uncomfortably accurate but… god, the world is at war again. Nazi Germany has attacked Poland and Bucky can feel the gnawing dread growing inside him like mould.

He’d thought the fighting was over now. He’d thought that, after the Great War, there might finally be _peace_ –

But Bucky is wrong.

That much is painfully certain.

He can see the horror of it growing in Steve’s eyes too, his lashes almost always damp with tears now. He’s falling into a depression at the state of the world and Bucky isn’t strong enough to coax Steve back on his own, no matter how hard he loves him. Steve keeps having panic attacks that only Bucky can snap him out of and his boyfriend’s vulnerability frightens him so much because Bucky can’t help thinking: ‘ _what if one day Steve has a panic attack or an asthma attack and I’m not around to help him?_ ’

Bucky tries to hide his fear though; tries to bury it in Steve’s warm skin and pretty mouth and sharp edges. He patches Steve up when he gets into fights and dries the younger man’s tears away, and when all of that fails to rekindle the light in Steve’s lovely eyes, Bucky starts taking him to art classes because he knows how much Steve loves being creative.

The art classes quickly become Bucky’s favourite place; not because he’s very good at art – he’s always been embarrassingly mediocre at drawing and painting – but because it’s the only time Steve looks happy anymore.

Even the classes are tainted now though. He can hear the students talking about the war in grim voices; about how long they think it’ll be before America gets involved. They talk about whether they want to serve in the army or not; talk about whether they’ll even have a _choice_ and all of the colourful ways they might try to escape conscription.

When Bucky looks over at his boyfriend and sees the steel in Steve’s pretty eyes, something that feels a lot like ice unfurls in Bucky’s stomach.

“I’m going to fight in the war,” Steve declares, cold and firm. He wants to be like his father – Steve’s never made that a secret – and Bucky supposes he should have seen this coming from a mile off. He supposes he shouldn’t break down in tears in the middle of art class.

Horror floods through him at his boyfriend’s determination but he hides it as best he can, forcing a faint smile instead as he leans over and smears red paint across Steve’s cheekbone, wanting to break the tension. The paint is the colour of blood though and Bucky regrets it at once; feels a pang in his chest even as Steve scowls at him weakly, huffing out a breathless laugh as he tries to clean it from his skin.

Bucky feels the dull acceptance in his chest when he looks at Steve’s smiling, paint-stained face and – little though he wants to – he knows he’ll sign up to join the army when the time comes.

He’s not letting Steve fight alone.

He’d do anything for him.

The realisation scares Bucky though and his heart still feels jittery behind his ribs when they go to a diner later that night, hooking their ankles together under the table. They share a strawberry ice cream sundae – Steve can barely eat any because dairy makes him sick but he likes the sauce and Bucky likes Steve so there’s no question that they order one, even though he secretly hates strawberries. It’s become a weekly thing now: art classes and then ice cream, and then back to Bucky’s for kissing and hopefully more, if Steve's asthma isn't playing up.

Bucky wishes he could marry Steve.

He wishes he could make him smile again.

Steve doesn’t smile often at all anymore and it’s not even just because of the war… because his mom is sick – _really_ sick – and it doesn’t look like she’ll pull through this time. It’s almost definitely tuberculosis from the ward she works on but Steve is refusing to talk about it – won’t even _acknowledge_ it half the time – and although that hurts, Bucky can’t be offended… not when he can see the naked fear in the younger man’s eyes.

Bucky doesn’t want to make Steve feel even _worse_.

Absently, Bucky wonders if Steve’s mum Sarah should go to a Sanatorium the way Bucky’s great aunt Elena did when she caught the disease. They seem like frightening places but maybe the harsh treatment there would help. Bucky knows it’s no good even suggesting it though because Sarah is _just_ as stubborn as her son and she’d see that as giving up.

Hell, Bucky doubts she’ll even admit she needs help until she’s trapped on her own tuberculosis ward.

Across the table from him, half-hidden behind a slowly-melting ice cream sundae, Steve lets out a sigh like he knows what his boyfriend is thinking.

Bucky wonders if his morbid thoughts are visible on his face but he figures they can’t be when something softens in the younger man’s eyes as they gaze at each other.

Steve is so beautiful in the lamplight. His cheekbones cast shadows on his pale skin and his long eyelashes are spiky with tears beneath the dark blond of his soft hair. There’s the hint of a love-bite sucked into his collarbone – just visible where his shirt isn’t buttoned all the way to the top – and Bucky feels like the luckiest man in the world for a moment when Steve reaches across the table to give his hand a brief squeeze.

Bucky’s heart races in his chest when he realises Steve is gazing at him in much the same way, almost like _Bucky_ is beautiful too… with his long hair and resting frown; the bruises staining his skin from boxing and the oil under his nails from his motorcycle, no matter how many times he washes his hands.

No one has ever looked at Bucky like that before. Never.

Steve withdraws his hand and it’s not trembling now. He reaches into his pocket for the snub of pencil he always seems to carry and starts scribbling a doodle of his boyfriend on the napkin, and Bucky hums contentedly when he sees it, undeniably flattered. He reaches out unthinkingly, his knuckles grazing gently over Steve’s cheekbone before he remembers they’re in public and drops his hand, cheeks flaming.

Steve is smiling at him though, his blue eyes soft and sincere, and deep enough to drown in.

“You’re so beautiful, Stevie,” Bucky murmurs, his heart melting at his boyfriend’s gentle eyes; the little smear of strawberry sauce on the corner of his mouth; the faint stain of red paint that Steve hasn’t quite managed to clean away.

“Think you must be talking about yourself, Buck,” Steve counters but his eyes are glittering with promise now and neither of them care about finishing their sundae. The only thing Bucky gives a damn about is Steve.

They leave the diner quickly, their arms wrapped around each other as Bucky shelters Steve beneath his coat. He doesn’t want his boyfriend to catch a cold and it’s dark anyway; no one will notice if they’re closer than they should be. The rain mists down, the street lights hazy and glowing as they share a kiss, brief and dangerous on the street corner.

“We can’t do this here,” Bucky breathes, not wanting anyone to give them any trouble now. Steve would only try to fight them and then he'd get hurt, and Bucky will never forgive himself if he's the cause of that. He needs to keep Steve _safe_.

“C’mere then,” the younger man murmurs, dragging Bucky into an alley nearby where he’s pretty sure Steve got beaten up once. Steve seems to be thinking the same thing by the bemused expression on his pale face but when he stretches up to kiss the older man breathless, Bucky stops remembering the time he had to scrape his boyfriend off the cobbles here. He just wants to be close to him instead.

“Are you sure you want to stay out in the rain?” Bucky checks, even as his fingers tangle gently in the damp blond hair and Steve’s teeth graze his bottom lip. It makes Bucky shiver and Steve laughs, soft and low as he kisses his boyfriend again, holding him even closer.

“I could do this all day,” Steve whispers. “Look what you do to me.”

Bucky knows it’s the truth; feels it when he draws Steve into his arms and cuddles him with trembling hands, their eyes glitter-soft. Steve’s blond hair is sticking to his forehead in the rain and his lips are swollen from kissing, and Bucky wants to do this for the rest of his life.

“I wish you could stay with me forever,” Steve mumbles, like he’s sharing a secret.

Bucky wishes he could too but he can’t quite shake his unease that something dangerous is coming.

He’s scared they’re going to be torn apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!  
> I'd love to know what you thought :)


	6. Spring, 1942

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is sad and I'm sorry about that. Hopefully you don't hate it!

Steve’s mom is gone.

The tuberculosis consumed her from the inside out and she was too stubborn to seek help, just like Bucky had foreseen all those years before. She waited until it was too late, more focused on trying to save her patients than picturing how her death would inevitably tear Steve apart.

Bucky will never forgive her for it, even though he was taught not to speak ill of the dead… even though _he_ loved Sarah too and feels her loss as keenly as a knife’s edge.

The world feels like it’s burning to ash around them.

America has officially joined the war after the attack on Pearl Harbor and Bucky sees the grimness settling on the faces of everyone he passes in the street. It feels wrong that the flowers are still blooming on the green; that the rain showers are still misting down and making everything sparkle.

Steve has completely shut down; won’t talk about his mom or the war at all. He just sits there with glassy reddened eyes, turning that tiny snub of pencil silently between his shaking fingertips as he stares out unseeingly at the sky.

The only time Steve even surfaces in the days leading up to his mom’s funeral is when Bucky tries to keep him occupied at Goldie’s Boxing Gym. They travel there on the motorcycle and Steve’s grip is unbreakable around his boyfriend’s waist, swamped as he is in the older man’s leathers, and Bucky wants to make Steve feel whole again but there’s nothing he can do.

It’s why he decides to teach Steve better ways to defend himself because that’s what Sarah would’ve wanted for her son. Bucky wants Steve safe too, more than he can put into words sometimes, especially with the threat of war looming over them like a storm. Bucky is so focused on keeping Steve from getting hurt that he barely spares a thought for himself.

It rains on the day of Sarah’s funeral and Bucky finds it hard to believe that she’s dead, even though it’s already been a week. Steve looks small beside him, his shoulders hunched in his second-hand suit, his blond hair neatly combed but unusually dull-looking in the grey light.

Steve is holding Bucky’s hand so tightly that there’ll probably be bruises tomorrow but Bucky doesn’t mind. He just wants Steve to know he cares.

The funeral is a quiet affair. There’s only a handful of people in the chapel with them: Bucky’s folks, some of Sarah’s colleagues from work, and one long lost Irish relative that Steve swears he’s never seen before.

The service is probably flowerier than Steve’s mom would have appreciated and Steve seems to think the same thing because he slips out at the end, before he can be passed around for the mourners to embrace. His pale face is pinched and grey, and the tears are drying sticky on his sharp cheekbones as he disappears. Bucky rushes after him without a second thought.

He can’t see Steve outside and he panics for a moment, tormenting himself with thoughts of his boyfriend walking into the busy road without looking or being mugged in one of the many alleys or -

There.

Bucky can see him now. Steve is staggering away on the other side of the street, already taking a shaky puff of his inhaler as he slips down a side road. He’s heading towards home and Bucky follows him at a discreet distance once he realises this, aware that his boyfriend probably needs privacy right now.

He waits for Steve outside the younger man’s house, leaning against the familiar wooden porch as he waits for Steve to finish smashing things up in his childhood bedroom. Bucky wants to stop him; wants to make sure he doesn’t injure himself in his despair but Bucky knows Steve holds his anger in sometimes, not wanting to hurt other people. Bucky should let him have this moment alone.

It hurts though; stings even worse when he hears Steve’s soft heartbroken sobs and the sound of his inhaler again, like he’s cried so much he can’t breathe. Bucky opens the door then, uncaring as to whether or not he’s welcome because Steve _needs_ him and Bucky refuses to leave him by himself when he’s hurting this badly.

He finds his boyfriend sitting in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairs, knuckles bleeding, hair in disarray, cheeks flushed with colour as his chest heaves. Bucky doesn’t think it’s asthma causing it though; just pain and anxiety.

“You followed me all the way here?” Steve croaks, his expression equal parts pain and wonder.

“I’d follow you anywhere,” Bucky promises and it’s painfully true. “I’m with you ‘til the end of the line, Stevie.” He softens, sitting down at the foot of the stairs beside his boyfriend. After a moment, Steve melts into his warmth and another tear falls when Bucky kisses his hair. “You don’t have to be on your own.”

It’s quiet in the house; just the ticking of the clock and Steve’s ragged breathing.

“You gonna come back home with me, Stevie?” Bucky murmurs, his eyes saddening as he takes in a pair of Sarah’s shoes lying forgotten by the doormat. He hopes Steve doesn’t notice them or he’ll lose it again. “My folks want you there. We _love_ you.”

“Dunno,” Steve mumbles, stubborn and prickly. His lips twitch but the smile never touches his eyes. “Don’t want to sleep on the couch cushions again.”

“Guess you’ll have to sleep in my bed then,” Bucky says innocently, grateful for the loophole. “Think my folks have probably guessed about us, Stevie. We don’t need to hide it from them.”

Steve’s lips part for a moment but no sound comes out. He’s torn; can’t decide if he wants to argue for the sake of it or just go to sleep and never wake up again. Neither option sounds like it’ll solve his problems right now. He needs change.

Bucky draws his boyfriend into a gentle hug and kisses his forehead, interrupting his reverie.

“Let me help you, Stevie,” he whispers and Steve sighs, brushing a loving kiss over the taller man’s throat.

“I love you, Buck,” Steve says honestly, his tone grateful, and Bucky gives him a watery smile, his sky blue eyes wet with tears and sadness, and just a little fear. Bucky recognises the acceptance in Steve’s eyes for what it is.

“I love you too,” Bucky whispers. “That won’t ever change.”

They walk back to Bucky’s house holding hands whenever the street is empty, their hair damp from the rain. Steve refuses to let Bucky carry his bag even though it’s heavy, too stubborn for his own good. Bucky lets him though. He knows Steve needs to do this; needs to feel like he’s in control again.

Bucky’s heart sinks in his chest when they walk slowly down the high street, past all the shops with propaganda posters plastered up in their windows. He feels like he knows what’s going to happen before it does and Steve doesn’t disappoint him.

The younger man stops walking, his teary eyes glued to the posters as he stares at them, tracing the words with something that is frighteningly like longing.

“I want to join up,” Steve says quietly, his ashen face blazing with determination. “They’re bullies, Buck,” he adds, jabbing his finger hard at the poster where a caricature of a Nazi soldier leers out of the paper. “I hate bullies.”

Bucky knows that’s the truth; remembers the day they met when a tiny Steve Rogers hurtled across the playground to defend him, and got thoroughly beaten for his troubles. Bucky remembers how much he loved Steve even then, with his grass-stained uniform and bloodied nose.

“I’m gonna join up,” Steve repeats, breathless and impossible to sway.

Bucky seems terrified by the very idea of it and, although he doesn’t argue, the fear in his eyes lingers until the next day when Steve insists on going to a recruiting station. It fills Steve with purpose as he marches inside but he feels something wither in his chest when the doctor takes one look at his tiny wheezing frame and laughs.

“With all these health conditions?” The doctor shakes his head as he reads Steve’s file, his tone jovial as he stamps the record with the dreaded 4F. Steve feels his world fall apart around him. “I’m saving your life by saying no, Rogers. You’ll thank me one day.”

Steve storms out unthinkingly, his heart aching when he can no longer see Bucky waiting in the lines of men. He must have been called in too and Steve feels the fury inside threatening to overwhelm him as a lump rises in his throat. His chest feels tight and he stumbles out of the recruiting station as fast as his legs can carry him, so desperate not to break down in front of these strangers.

He waits for Bucky in an alley nearby, kicking the wall as hard as he can until he realises it won’t help. He found that out yesterday when he tried to smash his desk to pieces and his heart aches as he recalls this because he drew so many of his pictures there as a kid. The tears lodging themselves in Steve’s throat are suddenly impossible to breathe past and he rubs his eyes fiercely with his sore knuckles, hating himself for being too weak to follow in his father’s footsteps.

It’s cold for spring and Steve feels the chill settling in his bones as he huddles up against the wall, his arms folded tightly across his ribs as he stares back towards the recruiting station. He glares at every man striding out with orders gripped in shaking fists, proud and scared, and ready to serve.

More than anything, Steve wishes he could go too… but it’s not possible. Once more, his body has let him down and Steve will never forgive himself for it.

When Bucky rejoins him half an hour later, he is unusually pale and his hands are shaking. He is carrying a folded piece of paper in his trembling grip.

“Did you get accepted, Stevie?” Bucky asks urgently, even though he must be able to _tell_ by the tears on the younger man’s face. Steve shakes his head bitterly and Bucky slumps like his knees are trying to give way beneath him.

The terror in his pretty blue eyes is suddenly painfully visible and Steve reels back a little, shocked by the intensity of it as the fear eats away at his boyfriend.

“Buck…” Steve’s voice is alarmed as he gazes at Bucky in silence, the older man’s terror contagious. “What’s wrong?”

Bucky holds out his orders silently and Steve’s heart clenches when he sees them because… god, Bucky can’t leave _without_ him. They’re supposed to be together forever. Why hadn’t he realised this was a possibility?

Steve starts to shake as his tear-filled eyes slide over the words. The bold writing feels like a kick in the teeth as he processes what he’s reading and he almost cries when he looks up into Bucky’s face, almost drowning in the panic burning there.

The orders are brief and very clear. They state that Bucky will be joining the one hundred and seventh infantry, just like Steve’s dad. He’s shipping out of America _tomorrow_ and Steve holds Bucky’s hand even tighter than he did at his mom’s funeral but it’s no good.

He can still feel Bucky slipping through his fingers like sand.

Steve is afraid there’ll be nothing left soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> I'd love to hear what you thought <3


	7. Autumn, 1943

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this update is okay!  
> We're so close to the end now!  
> Fingers crossed you'll enjoy :)

Steve wants to follow Bucky so badly it hurts.

He travels around the city, visiting countless recruiting stations and being denied at every one. He tries begging, bribing, losing his temper, and even praying but it never works. Steve is being treated with kid gloves and no one will give him the chance to prove himself.

He kicks angrily at a drift of dry leaves as he storms along, hating the chill of the season; hating the metallic stench of the munitions factory across the road; hating _himself_ for sending his boyfriend off alone.

Bucky’s been away fighting for over a year by now and Steve feels his loss like a missing limb; misses Bucky’s soft laughter and gentle touches, and the way his pretty eyes flutter shut when Steve kisses him.

He thinks of Bucky’s kind smiles and the way he always wants what’s best for his boyfriend, and Steve freezes right there on the street, his lips parting as he gazes down unseeingly at the rain-wet concrete. It’s just occurred to him how sad Bucky would be at the state of his boyfriend’s life; at how far Steve has let himself sink.

Steve’s been sitting around waiting for Bucky like a lost puppy, too miserable and self-pitying to take care of himself properly. He’s been working an unpleasant job at the marketplace, cleaning up the rotten fruit at the end of the day and wishing he could find a reason to live again.

Steve can’t remember the last time he cooked a proper meal or picked up his sketchbook, and the realisation hurts more than he expects it to as he slowly starts walking again, one foot in front of the other as the dead leaves crackle beneath his feet.

He goes back home wearily, aching a little when he digs his key out of his pocket and remembers when his mom used to make him wear it on a string around his neck. He feels so old then; feels every exhausting second of his twenty six years.

He takes his shoes off in the hallway, his eyes drifting around the familiar space as his heart aches in his chest. He kissed Bucky on the stairs here once, tangling his fingers in the older man’s hair as he settled down warmly in his boyfriend’s lap.

Steve wishes he could kiss Bucky again now.

He hopes Bucky knows how much he misses him and how sorry Steve is that Bucky went to fight because of him.

He hopes Bucky still loves him.

Steve walks upstairs slowly, his eyes settling on the desk still standing in the corner of his bedroom. He’s glad he was too weak to break it the day of his mom’s funeral and he goes to sit behind it now, his hand settling on the polished wood for a moment as a sigh escapes him. He opens the top drawer, his hand shaking a little as he removes his sketchbook and the snub of pencil from inside.

The grey light is filtering in through the window and Steve stares down at the paper for a long time, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip before he finally starts to draw.

Unsurprisingly, he sketches Bucky: the sweep of his dark hair, the glimmer in his eyes, the kissable curve of his upper lip.

It’s only when Steve’s shading in the stubble on Bucky’s chiselled jaw that he realises just how different he is to his dad. It seems silly to realise that now, years after he devoted himself to trying to follow in his father’s footsteps, but he can’t deny the truth of it.

Suddenly, all of his dad’s ideals seem like barriers; not things to aspire to.

So what if Steve is too sick to fight in the war? He can still do good in the world, biding time and living his life until Bucky makes it back home. Steve shouldn’t hate himself for that; shouldn’t believe the horrible things that were drummed into him during a childhood of bullying… not when Bucky spent so much time encouraging him to love himself.

Steve’s learnt to pick his battles and he knows he doesn’t need to be like his dad to prove that he’s a good person.

Steve’s enough on his own.

He sets the pencil down with wide eyes, his fingertips stained with graphite as he stares at his drawing of Bucky. Steve has never wanted to be _less_ like his dad if it means he can’t love the beautiful man who holds his heart.

Steve wants to be himself because that’s who Bucky fell in love with; not a ghost. That’s when Steve decides it’s time to stop doing things he hates. Life is too short. He wants to love himself too.

He goes down to the kitchen with his sketchbook tucked under his arm and the snub of pencil stowed safely in his pocket. He makes himself dinner for the first time in longer than he cares to admit and it feels nice to take care of himself again. It makes him feel like Bucky would probably be proud of him.

Steve doesn’t mind the empty house so much tonight. It makes him think of his mom as well as Bucky; makes him think of the warmth they made him feel when they were still beside him.

It makes Steve think that he might finally take Mr and Mrs Barnes up on their offer of dinner. He misses them and they’re the closest thing he has to Bucky now. Maybe it’ll give him something to hold on to while he waits for his boyfriend to come back home.

He tidies his house for the first time in months that night and it’s more cathartic than he expects. It badly needed to be cleaned and he feels better once it’s done; wonders if maybe tidying up other areas of his life might have the same effect.

As soon as the thought crosses his mind, he’s determined to quit his awful job at the marketplace. That’s not where Steve’s supposed to be. He can see that clear as day.

Steve feels more peaceful than he has in months as he climbs the stairs to bed that night.

He’s going to visit the local college tomorrow and see if there are any jobs available.

Steve wants to teach art.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!  
> I'd love to hear what you thought :)


	8. Spring, 1945

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, everyone!  
> This chapter is a little bit shorter but it's very angsty so I'm sure you won't blame me for that...  
> Only one update left to go after this!

Bucky is so empty.

He’s terrified and cold and hungry all the time. He _aches_ with a bone-deep exhaustion that never, ever fades. It fills his every waking moment and his broken sleep is plagued with terrible nightmares. Bucky needs Steve so badly that the pain of it swells to fill every hollowed out place inside him.

He’s lost track of where he is now. It’s just one more awful, freezing stretch of trench that he had no business ever clambering into in the first place. He doesn’t want to be here. There is no glory in this.

It was always Steve’s dream to follow in his father’s footsteps. Not Bucky’s.

He misses Steve more than he can put into words: misses his soft blond hair and the warm, comforting smell of his neck; misses the word ‘ _Buck_ ’ slipping from his lips between kisses as he cradles his boyfriend safely in his arms.

Bucky dreams of Steve sometimes, in the early hours when his nightmares have already torn him apart. He dreams of Steve walking across No Man’s Land towards him while Bucky sleeps fitfully, snatching moments of fractured sleep between the falling of shells and the screams of the soldiers.

Every time Bucky sees Steve in this horrifying new world, he wonders if he’s dead.

Every time he wakes up, he cries because he isn’t –

But Steve would want him to be strong, the way the younger man has always been strong for Bucky.

He remembers their first meeting for a moment; remembers that day on the playground when a tiny blond boy had hurtled over to save him from Frank Grim. Bucky isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry when he realises that he still remembers that pathetic little bully’s name even after all these years but he thinks he would quite like to thank Frank now because, without him, Bucky might not have befriended Steve.

It doesn’t matter how frightened Bucky feels now; how much he hurts and cries and trembles, because he can never regret meeting his boyfriend. Bucky _loves_ Steve. He always will, for the rest of his life... even if that _isn't_ for very much longer now.

Perhaps Fate is listening because Bucky’s world gets darker from that point on as his life becomes more and more dangerous. There is a terrible battle; the worst Bucky has ever been in. He is in No Man’s Land, tripping over corpses and snarls of wire, ducking under bullets and smoke.

An explosion turns Bucky’s world to fire and terror and agony, and when he wakes up, everything is different.

He’s been captured as a prisoner of war by the Nazis. His left arm was lost during the explosion. His heart is crushed to dust in his chest.

Everything constricts – so tightly that Bucky almost can’t breathe – until all he’s left with is pain and fear and grief… and then, quite suddenly, the war is over.

Bucky is cut loose like a falling leaf.

He doesn’t know where he’ll land.

He doesn’t even know which way he’s falling anymore… but he hopes it’s back to Steve.

He longs for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!  
> Please let me know what you thought (if you don't hate me too much for the angst)...  
> Only one update left!


	9. Winter, 1950

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fic is finally finished and I'm angsty about it!  
> Hopefully you enjoy this <3

The war is long since over when Bucky finally sets foot on American soil again. The world seems strange outside the prison camp where he was trapped for so long. The fresh air doesn't taste the way he remembers.

Bucky has been through hell and back - that much is undeniable - and he sees the ghosts of war everywhere he looks.

America doesn't feel real now. It's more like the beginning of one of his nightmares, before everything falls apart. It feels constantly like he's waiting for the other boot to drop; for the menacing shadow to loom over him –

But it never does.

No matter how hard it is to accept, Bucky is safe now.

That's what the nurses and the doctors kept insisting whenever he lost control in the hospital. That was what his fellow soldiers assured him on those long, lonely nights when he cried himself to sleep after he'd been rescued.

Bucky's hair is long and unkempt now, falling far past his shoulders, and his phantom limb weighs him down like concrete.

Bucky feels like he's been cracked open and scraped empty, and it's hard to believe that he'll ever feel whole again.

The sun is shining dimly through the grimy train window and Bucky lets his cheek rest against the smeared glass uncaringly. He's so tired. He feels like he could sleep for ten years but the sights outside the window are becoming strangely familiar and his heart is beating faster in his chest.

He's almost back in Brooklyn.

He knows his folks will have received a telegram informing them that their son was finally returning to America but Bucky isn't sure he can actually comprehend the reality of seeing them again, when he’d believed them lost to him for so long.

He spent so many years in the darkness, buried underground and forced to do… god, forced to do such _terrible_ things. He sees it every time he closes his eyes. He will never, ever forget it.

The carriage rocks beneath him and Bucky counts his breaths to keep calm; chokes down his panic and pain because he's alive. He's _safe_. That's what everyone has been trying to tell him.

He rises on unsteady legs when the train pulls in to the station. Nothing has changed beyond the dirty glass and Bucky feels unnerved by it as he reaches for his heavy coat. He pulls it down from the overhead rack with difficulty, hooking it over his remaining arm and swallowing past the ache he still feels even now, years after the explosion that had stolen his limb.

Bucky’s balance is terrible these days and he almost stumbles when he finally staggers off the train, still dressed in that godforsaken uniform because he’s got nothing left. Everything was disposed of when he was presumed dead several years earlier, and all he has to show for his part in the war is a dented water flask from the hospital and a heavy coat that no longer fits him properly because of his missing arm.

Bucky is limping a little as he starts off down the platform in his peeling army boots, his hips and back aching enough that he feels about ninety years old. He makes his way through the bustling station slowly, avoiding the stares he is receiving as he flinches at the screaming whistle of a steam train nearby.

Bright winter sunshine is filtering in through the high windows and one of the shafts of light illuminates a small figure standing at the far end of the platform. The man is short and willowy, a cap of honey-blond hair on his head as he rubs his thin arm through the white shirt he’s wearing beneath braces and khaki trousers. He looks cold even despite the warmth of the station and, as Bucky comes to a dazed stop in front of the younger man, he is struck with the overwhelming urge to draw him into a gentle hug.

For one long second, they are just boys again, lost out of time, and torn apart in a blizzard of loneliness and pain. Then Bucky blinks and the ache comes rushing back.

He squeezes his exhausted eyes tightly shut but his boiling tears still fall onto Steve’s skin. It only makes the younger man hold him tighter though, his wheezing chest hitching with breathless sobs as he clings to his boyfriend, so desperately afraid to let go in case he loses him again.

Bucky tightens his remaining hand in the back of Steve’s coat like a lifeline, his fingers knotted in the material as he anchors them together, and nothing in the world can persuade him to let go.

The bustle of the crowded train station drowns out their quiet sobs and the hitching of their breaths as their foreheads fall to rest together. Steve strokes the older man’s long dark hair, the touch tentative and gentle, like he’s learning him all over again.

“Hey, Stevie,” Bucky murmurs and the smaller man smiles up at him with tears brimming in his eyes as he reaches to lay his hand gently over the still-bandaged stump where Bucky’s arm used to be.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve says softly as his eyes shine in the golden sunlight. “Welcome home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading!  
> I'm really glad people have enjoyed this fic and I'm so glad I've finally got it finished :)  
> I'd love to hear what you thought <3

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this.  
> Please remember to leave kudos and a comment so I know you liked it. ❤


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